


Heaven's Net is Wide

by Dizzydodo



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Book Merchant Erik, Espionage, Getting Back Together, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Scarlet Pimpernel AU, empath Charles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 11:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10188923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzydodo/pseuds/Dizzydodo
Summary: Nearly five years ago Charles and Erik met, fell in love, fell in bed and fell apart.Years later they meet again, only now Charles is hiding something far more dangerous than his research notes and Erik deals more in smuggling mutants to safety than incendiary books.If either one learns the other's secrets, there's every chance their tentative new courtship will end on the guillotine.(Scarlet Pimpernel AU)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ruuru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruuru/gifts).



                                                                                                                                                 Richmond, 1792

 

When Erik sees him again in that sweltering July of '92, it might as well be the first time. Charles is as bright and beautiful as he ever was all those years ago. He draws everyone from humble servants to great lords with his warm grace, that inimitable life that was always just beyond Erik's reach no matter how he strove for it.

From his place on the balcony overlooking the gardens, Erik takes a moment to drink in the sight of him like a dying man would the sweet water of an oasis. Every sweeping gesture, every laugh just a little too loud for propriety is indelibly imprinted on his memory.

Much as he is loathe to admit, it takes a few moments more before Erik can muster the discipline to take the stairs one at a time. He would far rather vault the balustrade, sweep Charles into his arms and flee once more with his most valued treasure clasped tightly to him.

Except that Charles isn't his. Not any more.

 

 

                                                                                                                                                   Paris, 1788

 

For the tenth time in as many minutes, Erik yanked at his stifling cravat, trying in vain to relieve the strangling pressure on his throat. If anything the damnable noose only cinched tighter, depriving him of precious air and heightening the claustrophobic feel of the intimate gathering. Too many heavily-perfumed bodies hemmed him in on all sides, subdued voices made deafeningly loud by the sheer number of people crammed into a drawing room that rightfully shouldn't have held more than a handful.

It didn't take a telepath to divine the cause for their growing excitement. Charles Xavier was not a man given to public speaking, preferring to write his incendiary tracts from the comfort of his rooms in the city proper. Privately Erik wondered what enticements Emma had used to draw him from his self-imposed solitude. As madam of one of the more exotic brothels in a country already renowned for its tastes, Erik was sure it must have been something truly spectacular.

Regardless of the method employed, Erik had been pleased to be among those offered an invitation to the salon. Emma had assured him the majority of attendees would be Endowed, with the exception of several friends of Xavier rumored to be Human.

Erik didn't believe it for a moment. That a man could pen the damning evidence of humanity's obsoleteness and then embrace a species he claimed was certain to face extinction seemed unlikely. Especially given the lukewarm reception his works had received in the ruthlessly pro-human atmosphere of England. It was well that Charles Xavier claimed no faith in the church else he would have found himself excommunicated bell, book, and candle for daring to suggest that humans were not the very pinnacle of creation.

Damnation. Whomever the hell had decided to begin this trend of wearing fashionable garrotes about the neck must surely deserve an uncomfortable eternity. Given half a chance, Erik would have been pleased to dispatch the fool there himself. The bronze candelabrum perched on the mantel was looking more tempting by the minute: bronze was a sturdy metal, stubborn but infinitely more patient than brass, requiring a firm touch. It wouldn't tax him overmuch to fashion it into something that could cut through the cloth and free his much-abused throat.

He had already begun to sharpen the base into an edge before he was conscious of his actions, and having created the tool it would have been wasteful not to make use of it-

"That is marvelous. Can you work all metals that way or is it dependent on their properties?"

Guiltily Erik let the candelabrum fall, clattering against its mooring as he hastily straightened and blunted the metal once more. Manners dictated that he first request permission from the evening's host before exercising any of his unique abilities, and seeing as Xavier had not yet deigned to put in an appearance he had hardly done so.

"Oh, don't stop on my account, please. I spoke in all sincerity." The man's voice was softer this time, with a shade of regretfulness to temper his exuberance, "Unless I presumed too much?"

Erik turned abruptly to face his interrogator, hoping against hope his face didn't reflect his sheepishness. "Not at all. You only caught me unawares-"

If he had felt any shame for his choice of wardrobe, this fellow certainly laid it to rest. Erik's cravat had seen better days, his coat lacked the extravagant embroidery of many of his peers and he had seen no need to embellish with swathes of silk or satin, but this man would have been quite at home among the students at university. That high-necked style had passed out of favor at least a decade ago, and those shoes looked more like they were designed for comfort rather than the demanding standards of the ton. The overall effect should have been somewhat underwhelming, but it diminished the man's presence not a whit.

There was no need for a prolonged introduction, Erik liked the man on sight.

Cornflower blue eyes danced with good humor, lips curling up into an unselfconscious grin that would have been at home on the face of a schoolboy. "Wonderful. Then I hope you won't mind my prying? I thought perhaps your… metallurgy might be dependent on magnetism, but if I'm not mistaken, that piece is bronze and it hardly fits with that theory. Are you more adept with alloys then? The more varied the combination-"

"You assumed correctly the first time," Erik answered absently, overwhelmed at the sudden spate of words when he had resigned himself to spending the evening in relative solitude. His tongue seemed to have lost its customary edge, he hadn't a hope of keeping up with his new acquaintance under these conditions. "After years of practice I was able to begin manipulating others. Still, it is relatively new to me. It's only that bronze was among the first I began to truly experiment with."

He very nearly had to physically bite his tongue to keep from going on. Something about the eager, attentive cast of the other man's features made him want to speak until at last the other's curiosity was satisfied- and something in the tilt of the chin warned him that might well be an inexhaustible resource.

"Really? Then would you say your abilities have stabilized or do you sense there is still room for improvement? Ah. Forgive me, that wasn't what I meant, say rather, do you suppose there is more to discover?" Erik didn't miss the slight blush on his inquisitor's cheeks, the rueful quirk of his lips that suggested his tongue had occasionally outstripped his thoughts before. Without quite meaning to Erik found himself smiling in return, his own awkwardness long since forgotten.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met?" In fact, Erik was certain they hadn't. He would not have forgotten any such encounter soon.

Consternation overcame embarrassment, not unmixed with some shade of amusement whose source Erik couldn't begin to guess. "We've got this all backward, haven't we? My fault entirely. I am Charles Xavier, and you are?"

"Erik Lensherr." Preoccupied with the twinkling mischief in Charles's eyes, it took a moment or two longer for the import of that name to settle.

"Author of _De Praedita_?"

"The same, though I will have every opportunity to discuss that soon enough. I had much rather speak of you."

A brunette of middling height had been gliding ever closer as they spoke, champagne flutes in either hand and gaze fixed determinedly on Charles as though by sheer force of will she could call him to her. If the old adage was to be believed, she ought to have drawn his eye by now but failing that she had evidently chosen a bolder approach. Erik could not recall hearing anything of a betrothed, but the way she cut in beside him to nudge playfully at his side suggested the ease of long familiarity.

"Charles, your adoring public is growing restless."

For the first time in their admittedly brief acquaintance, Charles glanced away from him, and for the first time since their eyes had met Erik found he could draw a deep breath.

"Moira! I was just saying to…" A brief, considering look under lashes too long for any man. Erik stood a little taller under the scrutiny. "Sir Lensherr that-"

"That you would have to resume this tete-a-tete at the end of the evening, when your guests are no longer draining your reserves dry while they wait. I rescued some champagne for you."

"You're a dear, Moira. Don't know what I would do without you." Charles tossed the champagne back irreverently, grimacing at its taste on his tongue. Erik winced in sympathy; how such a foul beverage had come to be the standard for an evening's entertainment he would never know.

The woman- Moira- proffered the other glass, not bothering to hide her relief when Erik declined.

"I do hope you will stay awhile after, sir-"

"I am only a merchant. You may as well call me Erik." Slim chance the pampered son of an aristocrat would bother himself with merchant's get, but Xavier's pamphlets had suggested a thorough disregard for social standing, focusing more on ability than bloodline. He chose to offer his heritage openly, hoping Xavier would once again meet his expectations. He was not disappointed.

"You must call me Charles, then. I hope to speak with you again, Erik." That welcoming smile felt as though it were all for him, but the next moment Charles was gone, taking all the light and warmth of the room with him.

A decidedly unladylike snort drew Erik's attention back to Moira, still sipping none-too-daintily from her champagne. "He takes everyone like that at first. Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?"

Wordlessly, Erik gestured to one of the young men circulating with trays in hand, grabbing for the nearest glass, uncaring of its contents. Moira's laughter was entirely too knowing for his peace of mind.

"I hope you'll forgive me the introduction, but I've long since used up my patience for stilted formalities. Moira McTaggert, friend of Charles."

"I gathered." Erik managed, finally recovered from his daze, helped along by the pleasant burn of a stiff drink. "Erik Lensherr, merchant."

"I gathered." Moira returned dryly, "How did you come by Charles' works, Mr. Lensherr? If I'm not mistaken, I hear something of German on your tongue; I didn't think a few tracts would have spread so far."

"I would not know. England has been my home for a few years now, and I can tell you the theories Xavier advanced have spread like wildfire across the channel."

"He will be pleased to hear it. Charles is a loyal subject to his bones, but I fear the intellectual climate in England was not to his liking. I believe he left only a few steps ahead of a mob and a bonfire. France has been far kinder to his heresies."

"Heresies? That is a harsh word."

"One of the kinder ones he has heard in his time. His own gifts might have a hand in that."

Erik nearly inquired as to what those gifts might be, but it was to each man and woman whether they wished to divulge it on so frail an acquaintance. He might make bold enough to ask Charles when they spoke again. And they would, Erik had no intention of leaving this salon until he had secured the promise of another meeting.

"Might I ask about your own Gifts?" This was a moment Erik always relished, seeing the pride in an Endowed's bearing when called on to demonstrate their unique talents. Moira was no different, chin tilting at a defiant angle as she squared her shoulders, smile taking on a fierce edge.

"Accounting. I help Charles to manage his estate when his head is too far in the clouds to concern himself with earthly affairs."

"You are human then?"

"As are you. My circumstances are not unique." Her combative stance suggested she had faced the contempt of Endowed more than once and was not inclined to accept it gracefully. Curious. All too often it was Humans that were eager to be rid of the company of an Endowed, but here she was in the midst of them, perfectly at ease. Unconcerned with what they might think of her-

Erik inclined his head in mute show of respect, burying his face in his cup lest his tongue run away from him.

" _Ladies, gentlemen, if I may_?"

It was a few seconds before the crowd stirred and parted enough to reveal Charles, standing at the drinks table looking impossibly poised. When he spoke again, his voice did not carry quite the same resonance, but it effortlessly captured the attention of those present.

"Most of you are familiar with my name, but I wonder if many of you are familiar with the work of Joseph Kolreuter? I confess I owe many of my own observations to his dedicated study-"

For all he had thought to attend this gathering for his own intellectual entertainment, Erik found his attention diverted more toward the spirited gestures of Charles' hands and the flush of his cheeks as enthusiasm swiftly overshadowed decorum. This was… not what he had expected of a notoriously reclusive scholar. Charles was too at ease among company, effortlessly charming, unaffectedly warm. Erik had no talent for it himself, despite having plied his trade for nearly a decade now.

He listened, rapt, as Charles by turn theorized and explained, incorporating every whispered question into his lecture until it became a dialog rather than sermon from the pulpit. By the time the evening had concluded, Erik found he was not the only one left blinking as though woken from a daze, remembering for the first time in a minute to draw a breath.

He nearly leapt out of his skin when Charles appeared at his elbow as though conjured from thin air. "Bad form to hold an empty glass, but if I'm not mistaken the scotch would be more to your liking?"

Still gathering his thoughts, Erik allowed him to liberate the flute from his hands, following mutely as Charles struck off across the room, making for a door tucked discretely into the corner. It was strange, the way no one's gaze turned to follow the host despite being spellbound all of a minute before, yet somehow they escape the crowd without even one guest pleading for Charles' attention. Even Moira had found her attention diverted elsewhere, drawn into conversation with a mousy looking boy that hadn't yet grown into his height.

 

 

                                                                                                                                          Richmond, 1792

 

It is the minute tremor of his wineglass that warns Charles of Erik's approach. Fortunately Erik cannot walk anywhere without all the metal in his immediate vicinity trying in vain to reach him, otherwise he is quiet as a cat. _And every bit as thoughtlessly cruel_ , Charles thinks uncharitably, though he knows Erik would be flattered by the comparison.

It is too late to run, Erik would perceive it as a cowardly retreat and he would not hesitate to pursue. He has never concerned himself with questions of propriety or mercy once fixated on an objective. In his weaker moments, Charles still wonders if it wasn't that ruthlessness that had first attracted him, a hollow in his own soul calling to an overabundance in another.

If Erik believes he is still the gentle dreamer he was all those years ago, it will be a singular pleasure to correct the assumption. Charles knows his time alone has not been wasted.

Sean trails off when Erik looms nearer, their conversation ceasing abruptly to make room for the inevitable interruption. "Charles, I had not expected to see you in England."

Charles forces his most charming smile to his lips, let him see what he will never have, "The climate in France is decidedly inimical to our kind at the moment. Tempers always seem to flare with the summer heat."

It is far more serious than that, but he dare not tell Erik his true reason for fleeing here when he is still so desperately needed in Paris. "Our kind? I was under the impression it was only _aristos_ the French were murdering left and right. It is no wonder you fled."

The accusation in Erik's tone finds that small kernel inside Charles that still blames himself for everything that has gone hopelessly wrong. With an effort he swallows bitter words, "By virtue of our Endowments, we are a threat to that vaunted equality the Republic so prizes. They have begun hunting down and imprisoning the Endowed even now; I need not tell you it is only a matter of time before the executions begin."

Erik's jaw clenches, hands flexing in a way that shows Charles he is trying not to make them into fists. Erik has always felt closer to his Endowed kin than countrymen; the news of these latest atrocities will anger him to no end. It is Charles' first instinct to offer a comforting word and reassuring touch, but that has not been his privilege for years now and he has no intention of beginning that intimacy again.

"You must be here to plead their cause?"

"No. Paris has been my home for many years now, but until this unfortunate business is concluded, I will keep to English soil." If it were his choice, Charles would gladly plead his case, beg assistance from those in a position to give it. Unfortunately, cell or not, Charles is as much a prisoner as his brothers and sisters in France, only the price of his freedom is much dearer.

The lead about the base of his cup cracks, liquid seeping at an alarming rate; Charles fixes Erik with a reproving glare that is doubly returned. The crack only widens until at last Charles is forced to grip the lip of the cup to keep from dripping on his cuffs. Sean glances between them, proffering a welcome hand. "I can take that, Charles. I was about to head in, the heat…" he nods at the other guests, all seeking the shade of trees and the small pavilions set up in the garden.

"Thank you, Sean. I will stay here awhile longer."

Sean lopes away as though demons from hell pursue him, skittering past Erik without so much as a glance.

Charles offers his one-time companion a smile falser than vows made in wine, "The glass is ruined, Erik, for no more than the sake of your pettiness. I should not be surprised- you were ever ready to cast away your sharpest tools in the heat of anger, weren't you?"

To his shock, Erik smiles back, and it is not the same smile of that winter in '88 all bitter and stiff with disuse. This smile is wide and unashamed, as though finally he has grown accustomed to happy expressions.

"I have been known to make a few hasty decisions."

Even the false smile is too much, this change in mood too abrupt, and Charles dares not open himself to Erik's emotion again though he can feel something battering at his shields. It is intentional, he knows, Erik has long since mastered the art of shielding his thoughts and emotions courtesy of Emma's tutelage.

Charles too has been training these last years, and the talents at his command now far exceed anything Erik could expect.

"You seem well, Charles." Erik murmurs, and Charles cannot suppress a stab of annoyance that reflects in his gaze only for a second. With so keen an observer as Erik, a second is normally too long but luck is with Charles today and his breach of countenance passes unremarked.

"Short of being forced from my home, I suppose I am well enough. And you? Ought I to address you as sir Lensherr now?"

Erik's laughter is startling, a tinge of bitter amusement beneath it that Charles can hear without the aid of his gifts. "You give the title such contempt I won't insist on it. Tell me truly though, Charles, how are matters in Paris?"

"The revolution continues on apace, I hear the place de la greve will never be clean of the bloodshed-"

"That is not what I meant. Where is Hank, or Moira? I've never known you to leave them out of your scheming."

"And so you wonder what I could possibly think to unleash now. Moira is in Paris, of course, it is more her home than mine even now. Hank would not leave her alone in this climate. He remained to carry on with our work alone."

For all he knew, Hank and Moira were rotting in a prison somewhere wondering where the devil Charles had got to and if they would ever see the sky without the obstruction of bars ever again.

Erik turns away, glancing back at Charles to indicate he should follow. Not inclined to act as Erik's cherished lapdog, Charles matches him stride for stride, keeping an ever expanding distance between them that Erik doesn't seem to notice.

"You abandoned them-"

"Hardly. They are not children and I am not their keeper. What was I to do short of abducting them and forcing them aboard an outbound vessel?"

"You were always remarkably persuasive."

"And Moira has always been exceptionally stubborn. I was forced to concede defeat. Speaking of, is that colonist still in your employ? Alex Summers, wasn't it?"

Erik's gaze sharpens, taking in the planes of Charles' face as though by sheer force of will he can look into the man's soul. Charles is as opaque and unreadable as ever, but something in his tone alerted Erik this question is of more than a passing interest.

"He is. Why?"

"Hank wanted a message delivered."

"I was under the impression they did not care much for each other."

"I suppose the bonds of common country grow stronger when one is far from home. In any case, I gave my word I would see it delivered."

"Pass the message on to me. I would be pleased to assist."

"That will not be necessary. I will seek him out later and see it done."

Privately Erik wonders if there was a message at all or if Charles is only desperate to corner Alex and force him into an indiscretion. For all that they had bickered constantly on political matters, it had been Alex that protested most when he and Charles had parted ways. Against Erik's wishes they had kept up a correspondence, but even Alex had not known Charles was in England until a matter of hours ago. Charles is a subtle man, true, but to arrive here without any word of it?

Erik wonders if an escape from France was truly all he had planned.

"Will you be attending the musical evening? Raven would be pleased to hear from you again, and I know Alex will be in attendance."

"Then I shall speak with him tonight. Thank you, Erik, for your help." Charles veers off swiftly, ducking into a small gathering of folk among whom Erik knows he is not welcome.

Once Charles had known Erik's friends and foes as well as he did his own. Erik is not simple enough to believe that he has forgotten it even now, which leaves only the assurance that Charles is deliberately avoiding him. After their mostly civil conversation, Erik had hoped Charles would spend the afternoon in his company for curiosity's sake if nothing else. Since that hope is so thoroughly dashed to pieces, there is nothing more he can do than seek out Alex and find out whether the boy has some inkling of Charles' intentions toward him.

In the end it is irrelevant. Now after so many years of waiting and wanting, his own damnable pride and even fear staying his hand, Charles is with him once more. If Erik cannot yet say that Charles is his, wholly and completely with their past firmly behind them, then he has at least decided that this time he will be the one to press his courtship.

By the end of summer he will have Charles for his own once more, and this time he will not be so foolish as to surrender him.

**Author's Note:**

> The fic title comes from Lao Tzu's Tao te Ching and can be found here: http://izquotes.com/quote/3942894
> 
> (With all thanks to my beta because I am awful at titles!)
> 
> If I am remembering my Latin grammar correctly (and my dictionary hasn't failed me) "Praedita" is "Gifted" and Joseph Kolreuter studied plant hybrids in the mid-eighteenth century.
> 
> This will be my first long fic for this pairing, and while it's AU and adapted for the period, feel free to let me know at length if they feel OOC. Concrit is always appreciated! ^.^


End file.
